Return and Return Again
by antepathy
Summary: IDW MTMTE: The crew of the Lost Light returns to New Crystal City
1. Chapter 1

PG-13  
>IDW MTMTE probably shortly to be Jossed.<br>Drift, Rodimus, Axe, Dai Atlas  
>no warnings<br>On their quest for Cyberutopia, they stop at the predictable place. I expect in canon we'll find they return here and find the entire place devastated, everyone dead (I AM SUCH AN OPTIMIST) so here's my pre-emptive fixit fic?  
>for <strong>tf_rare_pairing<strong> weekly request Drift/Rodimus You play shallow really well, but you can't lie to me.

"Nervous?" Rodimus elbowed Drift in the ribstruts as the dropshuttle's ramp clanked out of its housing, creating a bright rectangle of sunlight.

"No. Yes." Drift shrugged. "Both." He felt the Great Sword shift between his shoulders, sliding over his armor like a comforting hand. He didn't know how they'd be received here, didn't know how he'd be received.

"Weirdo." Rodimus grinned. Nothing ever seemed to shake his confidence. Drift envied that, admired it.

"It's complicated."

"And you're a complicated mech. Got it." A wink. "Me, I like to keep things simple. Fewer distractions."

Shapes, shadows, in the bright light, the complex angles of Crystal City armor, waiting, cutting off any retort Drift knew he wasn't witty enough to come up with anyway.

Drift gave a quick sort of nod, galvanizing himself, and stepped down the ramp, the blazing sun dazzling his optics as it glinted off the high-gloss of the mechs waiting in front of him.

"Drift! Good to see you, lad!" A shadow swooped and Drift found himself lifted off his feet, crushed in an embrace, his face mashed against the dark blue armor he hadn't seen since…then. "You've come back to us, then, have you?"

"He's brought…Autobots." Dai Atlas's voice, bass and cool, even in the heat of the sun.

"We're not Autobots," Rodimus said, offering a grin. "We're on a quest."

Axe lowered Drift gently to the ground, one large hand on the white spaulder. "Questing, are you? For what?"

Rodimus looked at Drift. This was his cue, after all. Drift vented air. "The Knights. Cyberutopia."

"You. Him."

Drift had not missed Dai Atlas's glower.

"And about four hundred more," Rodimus said. "We have a whole ship." He waved up at the bright azure of the sky.

"The war's over," Drift said, quietly. "There's no need for you to hide anymore."

"You can go back to Cybertron," Rodimus said. "Primus knows they could use some order there." He squinched his optics at Drift in a gesture that said, 'what? You know it's the truth'.

It was the truth. The Cybertron they had left was a mess. And Drift wanted to have hope, but he didn't have faith that Bumblebee could fix it.

"How generous of you to ask," Dai Atlas said, dryly. "Our help, mopping up your catastrophe."

"But wasn't that always part of the plan? Part of why you left? To preserve Cybertron." Drift shifted, uneasily. Perhaps he'd sold this to Rodimus wrong. He'd thought they'd be willing to help.

"Cybertron's culture." A very different thing, apparently.

"We should hear them out," Axe said. "Not make a decision on a landing pad."

"I've heard enough," Dai Atlas said, arms folding over his chassis. "Axe. We have fought too hard and for too long—"

"And for what?" Axe rounded on him, and Drift could recognize the tones of an old argument between them. "Cybertron's our home; we owe them—"

"Nothing. We owe them nothing."

"Hey," Rodimus said, stepping forward. "This isn't about anyone owing anyone. We're asking for help. You can say no, but…let us at least ask the question, huh?" He winked. "I mean, you'd miss out on us being all grovelly."

Dai Atlas glowered, gaze bouncing between Rodimus and Axe, before he gave a gruff nod. "Fine." He turned, heelplates grating on the plascrete.

Axe gave a shrug, gesturing them to follow. "Bit testy, he is. It's all a bit new."

Drift nodded. "Hard to get used to."

"That's about the size of it, Knight." Another friendly touch on his shoulder, fingertips brushing the blade of the Great Sword. "You wear it well, Drift."

Drift twitched, the praise so honest, so unexpected that for a moment, he lost his stride. "…thank you."

"He'd be proud, I think." There was no need to say who 'he' was.

Drift shook his head. "Sometimes, I don't know."

"Then trust me, Drift." A hearty slap between his shoulder plates, rocking him forward a step. "Things have changed here." He pointed: the city rose on the horizon, a long series of intricate spires and swirling shapes. It was more beautiful than Drift remembered. His spark ached.

Rodimus trailed behind them, muttering into his comm, before he caught up. "Ultra Magnus is throwing a hissy fit. Apparently going into a city represents some breach of blah blah protocol blah." He shrugged. "Whatever."

"He sounds interesting." Axe, attempting diplomacy.

"Sort of like Dai Atlas," Drift said. "He's opinionated."

"And how," Rodimus said, grinning. "He's so by-the-book it hurts."

Their gait slowed as they entered the massive, white wrought-metal arch. "This is new," Drift said. He remembered the small casemate where they'd rallied, waiting for the fight.

"One of our changes. Many changes after you left." Axe gave a nod. "You changed us, as well, Drift."

"What Dai Atlas was afraid of." He frowned at the memory. At the time, he hadn't cared what it had cost Wing to stand up for him. At the time, he'd thought Wing nothing but a gullible fool.

"He forgot that not all change is bad."

"Kind of want to lock him in a room with Ultra Magnus," Rodimus said. "Cage match or something."

Drift tried to shake the shadowy thoughts away, summon a grin for Rodimus, but the city was fraught with memories and uncomfortable juxtapositions. Wing had known these streets intimately, but never in the sunlight, which cast changing, strange angles of gold on everything, like amber trying to freeze every moment in time. It was beautiful, and buzzing with activity—shopping, working, traveling—but it seemed empty to Drift, hollowed, because the part of the city he knew best was gone.

Here, the steps of the Council Chamber. The last time he'd seen them he'd been running up, spark pounding with tension, about to confess his betrayal. And Wing had been right behind him, confused and hurt, but still supporting him, still having faith, even when Drift was admitting he was unworthy.

He choked, turning his head from Rodimus's gaze. Sometimes, the other saw too much.

"Let me show you something, lad," Axe said, his voice thrumming with emotion. Which…didn't help. Drift nodded, not trusting himself to words. Axe took them down another thoroughfare, a broad street, crystals from sculptures casting rainbows of light and sweet notes of music around a plaza. And in the center, a white and red building. A vault, a mausoleum. He didn't need to ask.

"We honor him as well, Drift. He is the first we had lost in millennia." Axe's tone was hushed and sober. "But he reminds us, even now, what true faith is."

Drift squeezed his optics shutters closed, wobbling on his feet, and all the façade he'd put in place, all the optimism he'd clung to since the purging of Vector Sigma, seemed to crash into pieces around him. He looked down, almost expecting to see it littering the clean, elegant pavement. Instead, a rainbow refracted from a crystal lit his toe.

A touch on his shoulder. Rodimus, his usual grin changed, the curve of his mouth less cocky. "I can take care of the negotiations thing," he said, "And catch up with you later."

Drift shook his head. No. Bad idea, for one thing: Dai Atlas was touchy enough in temper. Besides. He couldn't live in the past forever. That was the whole point. He turned to Axe. "Thank you," he murmured. "We should remember the cost of war but it's important to remember the good, too. Like Wing."

"Indeed," Axe said. "Otherwise we can't find our way forward."

It had that ring of strange wisdom Drift had gotten used to, here, and it made him ache with homesickness the way Cybertron never had.

[***]

"You nervous?" Drift was aware he was parroting Rodimus's question, earlier, trying to make it a joke, as Rodimus leaned over the balcony of the quarters they'd been given, watching night settle in with violet wings over the city.

"I'm never nervous," Rodimus said, winking over his shoulder as Drift moved beside him."Besides, I've got the old Rodimus charm on my side."

"And a worthy goal doesn't hurt, either," Drift added, only half teasing. They have to see we mean only good. They have to want to help, he thought, and then hesitated. Wing wanted to help. Wing would have joined them, optics glowing golder than the sun, eager and willing. Mechs needing help? He didn't stop to ask silly questions.

"Oh yeah, that, too." Another wink, and a bump of his shoulder against Drift's.

Music drifted up from levels below them, as though the air itself was singing, the city adding its night-cooling pings to the song. They could both feel it, Drift knew, that ache: Cybertron could be like this, all of Cybertron, safe, and happy, filled with song and peace.

"I can see why you'd miss this place," Rodimus said. "It's hard to believe, like it's been here all along. It's like walking in history."

Walking in history, Drift thought. Yes. Cybertron's, his own. He sighed, feeling the shadow of who he was settle down over him like dark wings.

"Hey." A nudge on his shoulder, and then a brush on his lips, warm and teasing. Drift shook his head, turning into the promise of a kiss. It felt wrong, and then right, to be kissing someone else, here in the city he'd met—and lost—Wing.

Rodimus pulled back, resting his crest on Drift's helm, his optics lakes of blue over Drift's. "I think you should go back. To that tomb place."

Drift's mouth tugged with emotion, raw and aching.

"It may be the only chance we get." Rodimus pressed his mouthplates against Drift's gently, pulling his into a smile. "Regret is about not doing things when you had the chance."

Drift felt the smile take on his own lip-plates, like a fire spreading. "One day," he said, "You're going to drop this shallow act of yours. I can see through you."

Rodimus winked, wrapping his arms around Drift, pulling him away from the balcony. "Ditto."


	2. Cenotaph

Drift didn't want to be here, even though he knew he wanted to. Ridiculous paradox, and Drift was no good with paradoxes. He'd never liked complexity; he always wanted things simple, clear, direct.

Life…didn't work that way. Never had, and fighting that had only gotten him into trouble. So he swallowed his discomfort, and let Axe close the doors of the crypt behind him, locking him in with Wing.

Or what remained of Wing.

Even in death, the jet was beautiful, untouched by time, carefully unravaged by decay and rust and corrosion, his armor polished sleek and gleaming in the dim lights, optic shutters closed, mouth in that characteristic enigmatic smile, as if he were just…joking, as if this were another tease between them.

The hole in the chassis spoke otherwise, riven and charred and horrible. Another paradox—he couldn't choose one without the other—when he focused on the one, his gaze slipped, until his voice rasped from his vocalizer in a strangled sort of sob.

"…Wing." The word, the name, hurt to say, like some glass bubble pushing out of his chassis. The word seemed to catch in the air, echoing off the reticulated vault.

One hand hovered over the shoulder nacelle, even now, not quite daring to touch it. He shook his head. "I…don't know," he said, finally. "I don't know if I've done what you wanted. I—I've tried." The hand lowered, the metal cool under his touch. "I dream about you. Not every night, but…enough. And I wonder if you…if you had the chance to do it over again, would you?"

The dead metal said nothing, the smile hiding secrets in its creases.

Drift snorted. Of course there was no answer. Wing was dead. He knew this. He was looking right at him. But the echoing silence seemed to summon words from him, pulling them from under his spark.

"Unfair question. I couldn't answer myself. I mean…how do you do something over? How do you know where to start? What to do differently? When every step you've taken is wrong, one right step doesn't…do anything, does it? At least, not enough."

He turned, tearing his gaze off the too-inert white frame. It was so familiar, but so much time had past that his cortex was hungry for reminders: that exact angle of the red flashed stabilizers, the sleek shine of his silver thighs. Memories seemed to hide in the shadows, the seams of the armor, as though begging touch.

"It hurts," he whispered. "It hurts, Wing. Missing you. Seeing you. It…hurts. But I don't want it not to hurt." A ventilation hissed between his dentae. "As long as it hurts, you're not…really gone. It reminds me, somehow, that I was worth something to someone. Worth a lot." His optics prickled with charge. "Shouldn't have. Not for me, Wing. I…can't live up to it. Primus knows I've tried."

He drew his Great Sword, Wing's sword, laying it down for a moment on the mech's chassis. "Should give this back to you. But then I'd have nothing. Nothing. And I'm…trying so hard." He bowed his head, feeling pathetic and small in the large, closed white space.

"We won the war. I guess. It's over. And Cybertron's coming back to life. It's beautiful. I guess. It's not home, I don't think. At least not to me. It's not the gutters. It's not here. I don't know if you'd want to see it. I don't know…anything, really." He sighed, resting one hand on the palanquin, the metal cool beneath his palm. "I couldn't stay. And I didn't think I'd come back here. And I don't want to think that this is an ending, but it feels like one."

His optics found the corner of the room, the edge of the plinth, anything but those shuttered optics, that too-still body. "Wing," he whispered, and found himself leaning over the plinth, taking one of the inanimate hands, folding it around the sword's hilt, pressing the crest of his helm against the cool knuckles. "Wing." No other words would come. He had exhausted a storehouse of words, and they had done nothing; they had failed to express, much less alleviate. He bowed his head, ribstruts wracking with sobs, the white shadows of the room pressing down upon him like downy fingers.

[***]

"Drift." A bass rumble, echoing across time, hauling Drift from the uneasy recharge he'd fallen into, hunched over Wing's body. He blinked his optics, thick with exhaustion, hands clasped over Wing's, as the massive storm blue frame of Axe stood over him as though he'd expected to walk in on just this very thing.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Words were dry again, a parched desert.

"Don't be, lad. I hope you have attained some measure of peace."

Drift shook his head. "Still hurts."

"That's the way of grief. You close it off, and go numb, or it hurts."

Drift nodded. Gasket: he had refused to feel. He had buried that so deep that it took millions of years to burst forth, to rupture open. "Don't want it not to hurt."

Axe leaned over, plucking the Great Sword from Wing's body, reverently laying the hands down by Wing's sides, before holding it out to Drift, offering. "What moves the sword, Drift, is the hand. But what moves the hand?"

Drift met Axe's gaze, hands wrapping slowly over the sword again, like a ceremonial reclaiming, the words a new catechism. "The spark."

Axe nodded, optics glinting as though Drift were clever indeed. "The hand needs the hilt," he wrapped Drift's hand over the beaded metal of the hilt, "and the spark needs that pain."

He took the sword, swinging its heavy weight in an arc to rack the blade into its attachment points between his scapular struts. It was a wisdom he didn't understand, but, in that way of paradox, he knew nonetheless.


End file.
